


for your eyes only

by haipollai



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Angry Sex, Codependency, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/pseuds/haipollai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They don't talk about it. They don't talk about Afghanistan or Mongolia or Cuba. They don't talk about the bullets and blood between them. It's safer that way. To talk about it would open scars and scabs that will never heal completely. History is a dangerous thing. It brings people closer but can tear them apart.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>So they don't talk about anything important. They argue over cards, and drink too much. It's just them, in a shitty hotel room because whatever passes for home is too far away.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	for your eyes only

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallencrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/gifts).



They don't talk about it. They don't talk about Afghanistan or Mongolia or Cuba. They don't talk about the bullets and blood between them. It's safer that way. To talk about it would open scars and scabs that will never heal completely. History is a dangerous thing. It brings people closer but can tear them apart.

So they don't talk about anything important. They argue over cards, and drink too much. It's just them, in a shitty hotel room because whatever passes for home is too far away.

Some old adages have truth in them, and maybe home is right there on motel beds that vibrate for a quarter, with a bottle of cheap vodka. It's better when it burns, when it feels like everything is being cleaned out. They'll never be clean but they hope to prevent any old wounds from festering.

Somewhere in the night, a stupid game becomes something more and Clay isn't sure when Roque's mild annoyance blossoms into anger but they're snarling at each other. They fight over nothing because what they're angry at can't be hit. But the other body, the other man on the bed, that's convenient and they understand the need for violence. Roque lets him pin him down, though he snarls and tries half heartedly to buck him off. They both know if Roque wanted to, he could easily throw Clay off. He's younger, stronger.

Clay's hand closes around Roque's throat and tightens minutely. Enough to assert dominance. Roque might be able to throw him off but Clay is in control.

They're both hard but this isn't about sex. They can go elsewhere for a good fuck. This is something else they won't name because to name is to ask and Don't Ask, Don't Tell would throw them both out on their asses.

Roque licks his lips and the scar makes it look like he's smirking even when he's not. 

"You gonna do something, sir?" Roque sneers, egging Clay on, moving them past their stalemate.

"Don't take that attitude with me." And suddenly they're fighting over something. They've got new guys in the unit and Roque knows better. He knows not to question Clay in front of the other men, he's got to be their superior officer.

"You really gonna stop me?" His voice is rough and hoarse and Clay realizes his hand is still on his throat. He snarls wordlessly and pushes him down in the mattress before falling off. Roque coughs until he can breath again and kicks at him but misses. "Go find some whore to fuck. Get out."

Clay's limbs feel loose and heavy from the alcohol. It's easier to stare at the door then move to it. He groans softly and stumbles to his feet, feeling Roque's eyes follow him as he makes his way towards the bathroom. He hears Roque follow him, sees him lean in the doorway as Clay leans heavily against the wall.

"You here to watch me piss?"

"You didn't come in here to piss." Roque stalks in, corners him against the wall. That twisted smirk still on his lips. He grips Clay through his pants. Clay growls wordlessly and twists them, slams Roque hard against the wall. "There we go, do it Clay. Be the man." When Clay doesn't move, Roque rolls his hips, grinding against him.

It's rough and raw, they don't do more then open their pants. Clay rests his hand on the wall by Roque's head for support, his other wraps around them, slicked only with sweat. The smirk disappears from Roque's face as his mouth drops open in a silent groan of approval. His tongue darts out, red and wet and Clay leans in without thinking, sucks it into his own mouth, and Roque finally makes a sound, moaning against Clay's lips.

Roque's hand joins his, tries to overpower his, change the rhythm. Clay bites his lip. There's the hint of metal on Clay's tongue but he doesn't stop to check the damage. They stop struggling though, and their fingers just entwine and move together because underneath all the other bullshit, they work together well. A hand twists and pulls at his hair. Clay breathes through his nose because there's no pulling back.

It ends suddenly. Like a knife left to twist in his gust suddenly being being pulled out.

Roque's hand slides down to the nape of his neck, rests heavily there as Clay leans against him, remembering how to breathe. Roque grumbles something that sounds like shower and Clay takes a step back. Roque absently licks at something on his hand, eyebrows arched.

Clay shrugs off his shirt, uses it to wipe himself clean and tosses it aside. Roque jerks a thumb towards the shower stall and it's all the invitation Clay needs to follow. The stall is small, they twist and turn to get under the water. It's efficient and within minutes they're out of the shower, water off, skin already drying. Clay takes one towel and lets Roque fend for himself.

What they do is another kind of cliche. Not talking about it, pretending it they don't name what they do it isn't the same. 

Clay flops onto a bed, not caring about sheets. He's slept on worse. He's almost asleep when Roque slips a quarter into the thing and sets it off. Clay growls low in his throat, sending Roque into a fit of laughter which ends when Clay elbows him in the stomach as he switches beds. There's barely enough room on one bed for the two of them but they make it work. Find ways to fit in each other's spaces.

The anger is gone, drained out of them. They're just heavy now, weighed down by a million things, taking some comfort in not being alone with that. They walk a thin line with anger and trust and their own ranks dragging them down and both of them are too stupid to just walk away.

Tomorrow they'll wake up and go about their lives until there's another crap motel room. They've given up on healthy, gave it up the second they signed their lives away to the US Army. 

Tomorrow they'll head back to base for new orders and Roque will argue with him every step of the way and everyone will watch and think, thank god it's not me. 

Clay can see Roque's back out of the corner of his eye, and thinks he could do worse, a lot worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely surlelac


End file.
